


You're My Christmas Present

by alliaskofyou, TryingToScribble



Series: Friends, Foes, and Festivities [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Sherlock returns AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:00:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13136778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliaskofyou/pseuds/alliaskofyou, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TryingToScribble/pseuds/TryingToScribble
Summary: Sherlock thinks that coming back from the dead on Christmas Eve (technically Christmas Day) is fine as long as he brings a Christmas present.





	You're My Christmas Present

John wakes up slowly. It is a rare thing, but there are times when he isn’t startled out of a nightmare in the middle of the night. However, he blinks a few times at the ceiling before he realises that it is still dark. It isn’t uncommon to wake up in the dark, for it is dark more than it is light at this time of year, but it still bugs John.

 

He turns over and reaches for his bedside table in search of his phone and the time. The screen’s brightness has him blinking some more but once the display comes into focus he scoffs and throws himself back into the pillows.

 

2AM.

 

He has been shoved from his dreams by fear in the middle of the night, he has drifted from his dreams gradually around 6AM each day if not, but never has he woken in the middle of the night for no good reason. Well, not since… then.

 

There’s no good dwelling on that, though, if he wants a good night’s rest. He lies back and stares into the darkness, listening to the noises of the night.

 

The fading engine of a car every so often, the buzzing of the street lamps, the quiet barking of a dog.

 

John’s immediate thought is that the owners of said dog need to shut it the bloody hell up at 2 in the bloody morning! Then it comes to mind that it’s 2AM and no dog should have been left outside to be heard barking. Poor thing.

 

He goes back to listening; the creaking of floorboards as someone in the flat above sneaks their way to the bathroom, the laughter of some drunk clubbers as they make their way home, the louder and incessant barking of that dog.

 

That’s weird. It sounds like someone is shushing it. It also sounds like… no, it can’t be. It does, however, sound like the dog and it’s shusher are on the street below his bedroom window.

 

John swings his legs out of bed, slipping his feet into his slippers to avoid the cold floorboards. He shuffles over to the window and lifts the blinds enough to peer out. A small dog - must be a puppy - is jumping back and forth in the light snow that has appeared in the last few hours, and its owner is crouched, waving their hands and getting louder in their attempts to quiet the animal (is that irony?). John can’t see very much of this mystery person as they are in the shadows between the street lights. He shakes his head in amusement and watches as they get frustrated enough to scoop the puppy into their arms and make their way to the door… his door. Well, 221. What?

 

The dog shusher must have produced a key because without knocking, they let themselves in. John stands for a moment in shock. There are no new tenants here. Then John remembers that even though he isn’t celebrating Christmas this year, it doesn’t mean Mrs. Turner’s married ones or Mrs. Hudson herself can’t have a few friends staying over. Right? Right.

 

So why isn’t he shocked when the next noises come from his front door?

 

He treads carefully down to the living room, careful not to make too much sound, and stands in front of the closed door. For a moment he feels like pinching himself to check that he isn’t still dreaming as a fleeting thought passes through his head that he is Scrooge about to be met by the ghost of Christmas Past.

 

There is rustling and scratching and cursing on the other side of the door. A muffled voice, the same muffled voice as out in the street, tells the puppy to quit fussing and John can’t take this anymore. This… this sick joke, because his ears cannot be deceiving him.

 

John pulls the door open.

 

A tall, thin, pale man standing opposite him, now. Both the puppy and a set of keys are held out in front of him. He looks up at John and John closes the door.

 

John’s emotions go from shock, misery, heartache, confusion, all the way to anger.

 

He wrenches the door open again and almost growls in this man’s face. How dare he still be stood there ready to play such a mean trick.

 

“How dare you! How dare you try such a cruel prank on a grieving man. How dare you stand there waiting for your moment to emotionally harm a broken person. How dare you try to break into this apartment and play games with someone because you see fit that their misery can be your joke. Do you think it’s funny to dress up as the one thing that a person wants at 2AM on Christmas bloody morning and watch them fall into a deeper depression because they know that they can’t ever have it?”

 

John cuts himself off before he gets any louder and wakes the neighbours, but he is so beyond pissed off that it takes many calming breaths before he can lower his accusing pointing finger and open his eyes that he doesn’t remember having squeezed shut.

 

When he looks up, the trickster’s face has not changed. The trickster is not laughing at having had his intended effect, he is not crying at being found by a furious army soldier shouting at him, he is not anything other than staring in utter disbelief.

 

John stares at this man for a very long stretch of silence. The coat and scarf are perfectly detailed like  _ his,  _ the hair is perfectly styled and jet black like  _ his,  _ and the puppy is licking at an almost paperwhite face that is unbelievably  _ his. _

 

It takes John only until he catches those blue-grey eyes to break.

 

He gasps. He clutches at the door frame so as to not crumple to the floor and tears immediately threaten to spill from his eyes. He doesn’t realise that he’s shaking like a leaf until his whole body is being collected in the arms of the trickster; his awful, stupid, wonderful, brilliant trickster. 

 

“I hate you.” John whispers into a shoulder, where his nose is pressed trying to prove to himself that this isn’t a hallucination.

 

“No you don’t.” Comes back the usual reply and John can’t help the sob that wracks through him at those oh so precious words.

 

“I asked you for one last miracle.”

 

“I know.” Sherlock says. He angles his body away from John without losing their grip on each other so he can look at the other man properly. “Merry Christmas?” Sherlock says with a strange emotion that is threatening to strangle him, the statement becoming a question in his uncertainty. John crushes that uncertainty with his first smile.

 

Their eyes shine as they stare into each other. They are quiet again as they confess everything without speaking a word.

 

The moment is broken when John’s pyjama leg is tugged on by the forgotten puppy. They both startle and look to their excited and playful companion.

 

“The puppy is supposed to be your Christmas present.”

 

John can’t help but remember that fleeting thought he had before about the ghost of Christmas Past and he laughs at his own little joke. He pulls Sherlock into his arms again as vows he will never let go.

 

“You’re my Christmas Present.”


End file.
